spicer-motherfucking-lovejoy started following you
Identify yourself immediately.
You’ll have to go through me, I’m afraid.
The calculator would have been preferable.
RSS7 x -3
Anonymous
-21
do you need some basic algebra help anon
i can sort-of help you with basic algebra
dylan-gould replied to your photoset: this comany’s heads are so derp but they have a…
Looks like a girl I dated for one night about a month ago.WHAT
…..I didn’t say that.
[Commander Sark tolerates cowardice liars even less than he does individuals who take shots at his glass masculinity! OOH GUUUUURL YOU IN TROUBLLLLE]
Really, now! So, are you saying I… Misheard?
Pray tell, what did you say, then?
[8|]
dylan-gould replied to your photoset: this comany’s heads are so derp but they have a…
Looks like a girl I dated for one night about a month ago.
WHAT
It’s lonely nights like these that I wish I had a lovely lady
or man or carto keep me company.
suddenly a wild quasi-monochromatic uncanny valley david warner appears in ridiculous form-fitting attire
he casually offers you a warm beer
you must roll a five or higher to avoid dying
AFTER CLOSELY MONITORING THE HUMAN FASHION INDUSTRY, I’VE DECIDED TO TRY SOME NEW LOOKS — AND I NEED YOUR HELP.
WOULD YOU PLEASE OPEN THE ATTACHED GRAPHIC IN YOUR FAVORITE PAINT PROGRAM, GIVE ME A FRESH COAT OF PAINT IN A STYLE OF YOUR CHOOSING, AND REPLY WITH YOUR CREATION TO THIS POST OR EMAIL TUMBLRBOT@TUMBLR.COM.
THANK YOU.
If I had some sort of drawing tablet, I would be doing this to pass the time.
How cute. The bot wishes to be more fashionable. Unfortunately, I am not an artist.
Then let me be your hand, son of my User.
oooohhhhh bby i want your dick♥
Anonymous
So much damage, and so much strain on all the buildings of this sector… I can’t imagine what must have happened here.
And we’ve taken far too long to fix the things that need it. I should never have waited, should have gotten straight to work.
…
He’s still here, though, isn’t he? I cannot wait until the day I can retire from exhaustion, and not feel him near me.
Sark had been idly wandering since his reboot; stalking the streets and back alleys, remaining out of sight and concealing his system-loyal circuits with loose-flowing, nondescript robes.
It was easiest to go about observing the destruction and the ruination and the panicked programs that were so frantic on their feet - so panicked to appease their users, but so disgustingly inadaptive to the inconvenience of their decimated city - in this way. He was feeling weaker and more insultingly mundane and incapable as the cycles passed, and any confrontation at this point would be entirely beyond him.
It was so difficult without a designation. Without pride, and without purpose…
The sector he had chosen to explore on this day was one unfamiliar to him; and he was thirsty, and desperate for energy after a fruitless past two cycles. With listless eyes, he scanned his slum-like surroundings for some abandoned storehouse; some untapped location where he might find some revitalizing rations - but something in the far-off distance caught his eye, and made him raise his head from how he typically hung it.
Beautiful lights and translucent structures sprouting from the ground, and boring into the endless black sky…
And he was compelled to abadon his search, and head towards the mesmerizing display—
And there was a woman there, creating this shimmering beacon. Healing all this damage for these insidious conscripts, and their little pointless little lives and desires.
His eyes narrowing to cope with the lights, he stared as the woman’s back-lit silhouette was engulfed time and time again in the vivid flashes of electricity - he had seen this Program, once. In a blur, somewhere. In some distant passing.
And he felt exhausted, suddenly, at this realization. Exhausted and irrational and desperate to succumb to the strange sense that this conjurer was a ‘friend’.
So as she worked - as she was engrossed creating her masterpieces - he approached her from behind; his gaze going beyond and into the shifting lights and twisting skeletons of rigid data, and his hand reaching out to rest on her shoulder.
Sark groaned, propping himself up on strangely steady arms before even opening his eyes.
His mind felt oddly blank, he realized. There were still vivid memories and perfect recollections of battles fought for some directive, some overarching plan that he had been scrutinizing eternally with every vicious disembowelment he committed - but no recollection of being attacked or trumped.
It was a mystery, how he lost consciousness or even came to be on—
…On the corner of a busy street, ignored by the populace.
This was all too familiar to him, and he grit his teeth.
There was still the order; still the purpose instilled within him to-
It it was then he realized what was missing - there was no current directive.
There was no current directive, and he felt decidedly mundane.
He had failed the MCP again, it would seem.
He exhaled a sharp, defeated breath - the thought as painful and biting as it was disgustingly redundant.
So he opted to move and sit, leaning his back against the obsidian structure that had so politely overseen his little spat of unconsciousness.
What do to…
Following orders
Her systems registered his approach before she did, and she slowly recovered from standby, where she’d spent the last full cycle.
Though nothing had changed, the flat now seemed foreign, as though it was being looked at through new eyes. Each piece of furniture was taken stock of and dismissed, and the relative weights were filed away, in the event that the use of them as weapons became a necessity.
Her last orders had been to convert all local programs to her master’s side; the only local programs were herself, the Siren designated Gem, and the Program designated Sark, who had been damaged and repaired, both of whom were already on the side of her master.
With nothing else to do, she stood, awaiting his arrival; awaiting orders.
There was no flickering of consciousness when Sark finally roused from his catatonic state.
His eyes opened plainly and without affect, and he felt nothing; no crippling aches or pains despite still being grievously damaged beyond the surface, and no strums of vigor or greater efficiency despite the MCP having salvaged him with a sustaining of wash of power and life.
And when he moved to get off his little bed he did not groan, and he was comfortably numb; despite feeling deeper parts of himself grind and crumble away from this new bout of motion.
His wounds were utterly ancient now, and the channels and constructs of his body had adjusted around them for efficiency. Beneath his armor and flesh, so much of him was black and dead and routed none of the flowing energy that coursed through him. Even the lingering and normally ready-healing surface wounds - haphazardly patched over as they were, with mere flesh being grafted over grievous necrotic caverns - did not play host to the occasional bolt of aimless, electrical life.
He would manage, he thought absently, passing through the doorway. While his body was ‘passable,’ his mind was still most assuredly not; still, his efficient and tactical mind was muddled by a blaring, incoherent haze.
And, in the foyer, there was someone.
He stared at her blankly before giving her a slow, quiet approach. While her circuits - while her faction - was of a much more rich, deep, and vivid a red than his, there was some reassuring twinge; some strange, instinctual knowledge that he was among ‘friends’.
And there was something else to the feelings within him, he knew; but exactly what, he was unsure of.
When he reached her, he raised a hand to place on her shoulder.
There was something worth waiting for, here with this Program.
About The calculator would have been preferable.
A roleplay blog for ~Command Program Sark~ of Tron fame, desu.
And were I affiliated with Disney, Tron: Legacy would have been two hour's worth of Bruce Boxleitner doing back-flips on motorcycles. 8|
And were I affiliated with Disney, Tron: Legacy would have been two hour's worth of Bruce Boxleitner doing back-flips on motorcycles. 8|
